Evermore
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: A well-known poet encounters the king of a pack and finds himself embroiled in a world unkown to him.


It was cold, unseasonably so, and the rains did nothing but add to the misery. This was an unscheduled stop, he'd hoped to find shelter with an old acquaintance, but no such luck. Now, here he was wandering the steadily darkening streets in clothes that were not his own and fit his frame poorly. His own clothes had become saturated by the relentless rains, he'd escaped into a tavern to try to get warm and dry off a bit where an admirer had struck up a conversation with him. How he'd been persuaded up to the man's room, he struggled to recall, yet every detail of what had transpired was clear as day. Somehow, he'd allowed himself to give in to the man's advances, had found himself in a most compromising position. His ever-rational mind had fallen prey to more carnal desires he'd thought himself in control of, had thought himself too intellectual to be driven by baser instincts. The scandal would ruin his already tarnished reputation, would doubtless be cause for his fiancée to call off their impending nuptials lest she be ruined with him. He'd hurriedly redressed himself in the first clothes he got his hands on, leaving his own finer garments behind and rushing from the room. He'd thought such depravity long behind him with his days at the University of Virginia. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

Now here he was, the fever and his shame making rational thought all but impossible, wandering in garments that weren't his own, now thoroughly soaked to the skin with no place to go. He had family that still lived in the area, cousins he was long estranged from that knew of his problems and wanted nothing to with them. He was stumbling, shivering from the damp and cold, and he was blissfully unaware of the eyes watching him and the soundless footsteps behind him. He'd been seen in the tavern by a man other than the admirer he'd spoken with, this one a man of immense wealth with grey hair and eyes the color of the sky after a storm. He was a Scottish noble well acquainted with the poet he now followed, had sat drinking as he tried to work up the courage to talk to the man Americans knew as The Raven. He'd seen the famous writer before at a lecture he'd given, but had not had the opportunity to speak to him then. What luck to have not only found himself in the same city but at the same tavern as The Raven, Edgar Poe. Impoverished and soaked as he was, his handsome visage ravaged by time and poverty, the Scotsman hadn't been sure how to approach the younger man with those sad, grey eyes and dark curling hair. So he'd sat drinking to work up the courage, but unfortunately another man had gotten to him first and, worse, had lured him away.

So he'd waited, hoping for Poe's return, until he saw the poet hurriedly make his way back through the tavern. Now the other man followed him, fortified with liquid courage, not entirely sure how he planned to proceed, indeed all he knew was that he had to talk to America's Raven before the man left the city. He saw Poe stumble, was at his side in a flash to catch him.

"Easy now, lad," he said, "Are you all right?"

"I do appreciate the gesture," Poe replied, straightening, "but I assure you I am fine."

He shook his head, wondering momentarily where this man had suddenly come from before deciding that he could've been right behind him or walking by and Poe wouldn't have noticed in his state. The man beside him was dressed in a thick cloak and top hat to protect him from the cold, wet rain still coming down, but he could make out little else in the darkening light. The Scot caught the writer's scent as Poe pulled away, a low growl escaping his lips as he smelled the scent of the other man on him, his fury mounting as he surmised what Poe's admirer had done. Poe was preparing to walk away when he heard a menacing growl behind him and turned to find that the man who'd caught him had been replaced by some nightmarish creature that was neither wolf nor man but a monstrous chimera of the two. He was desperate to get away from the monster suddenly eying him with fierce, amber eyes that glowed in the darkness, his brain shouting for him to run, but his legs refused to obey. Paralyzed by fear, he could do nothing as the creature drew closer, towering over him, its lupine head lowering until it was nuzzling his neck in what was clearly meant as a comforting gesture.

"Not you," the beast rumbled.

If not for the alcohol in his system, the man would have had the clarity of mind to control his fury and keep from transforming. Thankfully the side street they stood in was largely abandoned due to the late hour and the foul weather. He had no desire to frighten the pale man before him, but the fear in those grey eyes couldn't be helped as Poe beheld his true nature. So both man and, strangely, wolf within sought to try and comfort him, letting his breath out as the poet's heart slowed a measure as he nuzzled him. Fortified as he was with liquid courage and his judgment clouded that even transformed, he couldn't be bothered fighting the impulse to satisfy his longing to sample the brilliant poet before him. Poe stiffened at the unexpected sensation of a warm, wet tongue against his neck even as a shiver swept down his spine, unsure if it was some carnal cause or simply the feel of the warmth against his cold skin. He watched as the beast lifted its hands, each finger tipped in a vicious claw, to sweep his wet curls back from his broad forehead before they lowered to grip his arms. Quite suddenly, pain shot through him as razor sharp teeth sank into his shoulder, a scream tearing itself from his throat, its sound drowned out by the thunder that rumbled through the sky. Startled, the lupine creature pulled its monstrous head away as it released its hold on him, those distinctly wolfish ears pressed back against its head.

Without a moment's hesitation, his instinct to survive overriding the paralyzing fear, Poe turned and fled, slowing his pace to a brisk jog when he reached the main street. Anyone passing him would think his hurried pace was nothing more than his rush to escape the cold rain, he had no wish to draw undue attention to himself or the creature that might as well have pulled itself from Poe's own imagination. Initially the wound only stung, leaving him to believe it was fairly minor, but within the hour, he was feeling more feverish than before and decidedly faint. He couldn't go much farther before his world spun and he collapsed in a gutter, unable to get up or move in his semi-conscious state. Someone found him, brought him to a nearby inn where a bystander recognized him and summoned his uncle-in-law Henry Herring, a lumber dealer nearing sixty years of age. Knowing Edgar Poe's past with alcohol, Herring thought his nephew had over-indulged and asked a carriage be called to take him to the hospital. Having dealt with a drunk Edgar Poe before, Herring knew him to be an abusive, ungrateful drunk, thus he refused to take over his care. The poet was rushed to the hospital where he was laid in a quiet room to presumably sleep off his overindulgence. Having been told the famed poet was simply drunk (again), the doctors saw no reason to perform a more thorough examination.

However, the next day when Poe's cousin Neilson Poe, a lawyer and journalist, went to the hospital to check on his condition, he wasn't allowed to, the doctor attending him telling him that Poe was in much too excitable a state for visitors. His eyes met with those of an older gentleman seated in the waiting room, his grey-white hair sweeping in his face, thick brows set low over stormy blue eyes, a dark grey top hat perched on his knee crossed over his opposite leg. He thought little more of the man as he took his leave, the older gentleman pondering over the resemblance between the departing man and the poet he came to visit. Despite the bitter feelings Edgar had long born his cousin, Neilson sent some changes of linen and returned the next day, relieved that his cousin was no longer delirious and seemed improved. He was shocked as he was departing when he spied the elderly man again sitting in the waiting room, but said nothing. The Scot nodded politely to him before retreating to his own thoughts once more. It was his fault Edgar Poe was here, he hadn't meant to bite him, but how strange it was that the poet had not yet transformed. He'd told the hospital staff that he was an old friend of Poe's, acquainted with him since childhood, so they'd allowed him to stay, but he was waiting for the moment the curse claimed him. He was here to do damage control when The Raven transformed.

Except on the third day that he lay in the hospital, after a last delirium, he slipped away, Dr. Moran certain his death resulted from encephalitis brought on by exposure. The man listened in stunned silence to the news; the transformation should have happened, he should have changed within hours of being bitten, but perhaps his body had simply been too weak to withstand it. Having endured the transformation himself and seeing many others afflicted by it, he knew the symptoms intimately. Having spoken at length with Dr. Moran concerning Poe's symptoms, he'd felt confident that they were sure signs the famed poet was nearing his transformation. Perhaps he was mistaken or perhaps the stress of it had taken its toll on his weakened body and had done the poor man in. Still, he did not want to jump to any conclusions. The doctor's wife helped prepare the body for burial while Moran did much to aid in the funeral arrangements, Herring paying for the casket and Neilson for the hearse and a carriage. It was in the wee hours of morning that Neilson was roused from his sleep, mere hours before the funeral was to be held, and hurried out of his home to meet Reverend Clemm. He was hastily shown to where his cousin's body had been laid out, his eyes widening when he saw Edgar Poe not laid out, but writhing in pain.

"Edgar…?" he gasped, slowly approaching.

His flesh was pale, he was drenched in sweat, his black curls wildly disheveled, the hands grasping either side of his head shaking and clenched. He looked up from where he knelt on the floor, his eyes wild, and a look of fury crossed his face.

"You!" he growled, his normally pleasant voice contorted beyond recognition by fury, "You little dog, my bitterest enemy in the world! You would have taken from me the two people most precious to my heart!"

At that moment, the agony he was in became insignificant, even obsolete, in the wake of the fury that suddenly burned in his breast and that fury engulfed his entire being. Before Neilson's and the Reverend's eyes, Edgar's form began to shift. His eyes took an ethereal, very inhuman glow, his face elongated into a lupine snout, his ears became long and pointed. Grey hair sprouted all over his body, his clothes tore apart as his body shifted and grew, his feet burst from his shoes as dog-like paws, his hands grew larger as well, each finger tipped with a razor-sharp talon. Within agonizing moments, Neilson found a lupine beast staring down at him before it threw its head back in a howl then took off into the night.

"What are we to do?" the Reverend asked.

"Proceed with the funeral," Neilson answered, "I think, perhaps for Muddy's sake, it is best she never know of this and what he has become. I will go after him and I will find him."

"You intend to kill him?"

"No. I want to believe my cousin can yet be saved, that he's still there under the heart of the beast."

"Well," a voice came from behind the two men, "If you truly intend to help your cousin, you'll require my aid."

The pair turned to see the same older gentleman that Neilson had seen before standing behind them.

"You," he said, "and you think you can aid me? You do not know what he has become!"

"I know better than you think," he muttered, his gruff voice tinted with a hint of a Scottish accent, "I know how to help him."

"And who are you to know anything of this?" Neilson pressed.

"The leader of his pack," he answered, "King Genn Greymane. I have been where he is now, I have seen this many times already. Your cousin is now one of mine."

"Which is what?"

"Some call them worgen or worgs, others know them as lycan, but we are most commonly known as werewolves."

"He can be saved though?"

"He can be brought back to his own mind, so the man controls the beast, but alas there is no full cure for what legend calls lycanthropy."


End file.
